Da Vinci's Cat

By Catherine Gilbert Murdock

“Thoroughly charming.”—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“Original.”—Booklist (starred review)

"A story about selflessness, friendship and the importance of seeking unity through difference."—Shelf Awareness (starred review)

Two unlikely friends—Federico, in sixteenth-century Rome, and Bee, in present-day New Jersey—are linked through an amiable cat, Leonardo Da Vinci’s mysterious wardrobe, and an eerily perfect sketch of Bee. Newbery Honor author Catherine Gilbert Murdock’s Da Vinci’s Cat is a thrilling, time-slip fantasy about rewriting history to save the present. This inventive novel will engross anyone who loved When You Reach Me and A Wrinkle in Time.

Federico doesn’t mind being a political hostage in the Pope’s palace, especially now that he has a cat as a friend. But he must admit that a kitten walking into a wardrobe and returning full-grown a moment later is quite odd. Even stranger is Herbert, apparently an art collector from the future, who emerges from the wardrobe the next night. Herbert barters with Federico to get a sketch signed by the famous painter Raphael, but his plans take a dangerous turn when he hurries back to his era, desperate to save a dying girl.

Bee never wanted to move to New Jersey. When a neighbor shows Bee a sketch that perfectly resembles her, Bee, freaked out, solidifies her resolve to keep to herself. But then she meets a friendly cat and discovers a mysterious cabinet in her neighbor’s attic—a cabinet that leads her to Renaissance Rome. Bee, who has learned about Raphael and Michelangelo in school, never expected she’d get to meet them and see them paint their masterpieces.

This compelling time-slip adventure by Newbery Honor author Catherine Gilbert Murdock is full of action, mystery, history, art, and friendship—and features one unforgettable cat.

Includes black-and-white spot art throughout of Da Vinci’s cat by Caldecott Medalist Paul O. Zelinsky, as well as an author’s note about the art, artists, and history that inspired the novel .

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: May 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9780063015272

Catherine Gilbert Murdock

Catherine Murdock grew up on a small farm in Connecticut and now lives in suburban Philadelphia with her husband, two brilliant unicycling children, several cats, and a one-acre yard that she is slowly transforming into a wee, but flourishing ecosystem. She is the author of several books, including the popular Dairy Queen series starring lovable heroine D. J. Schwenk,  Princess Ben, and Wisdom's Kiss.

Book preview

Part I

Then

Chapter 1

The Visitor

Federico leaped to his feet, reaching for his knife though he was still half asleep. Papa! he shouted. Alarms! A face loomed at him out of the darkness. But Federico had no knife at his waist—not even a belt—

Oh. Oh. He exhaled, lowering his arms in relief. That face was not an enemy but only an antique statue, a gift from his mother. She lived far to the north with Papa and Federico’s sisters, in a castle with five hundred rooms. Federico, however, had dwelled this past year in Rome, in a villa that served as his prison.

Again alarms blared—no, not alarms but trumpets, announcing the next course of a banquet. Laughter drifted through the window, and the scents of mustard sauce, mutton, onions, spicy oysters, fish roasted with citrus. . . . Musicians tootled and twanged. Between the slats of the shutter, Federico could see a courtyard graced with tall marble sculptures and slim cypress trees, and a table crowded with diners. Even now a jester backflipped along the tabletop, flicking the candles with his toes.

Federico himself should be out there with the other guests, hooting at the jester’s antics. But this afternoon he’d gone to bed with a headache. Now the trumpets had startled him awake, his headache replaced by irritation and no small amount of hunger.

He could, he supposed, slink down and join the meal. But a gentleman did not slink. A gentleman made an entrance at the proper moment, to the approval of the crowd. To show up like a fretful child after a nap? Besides, he wasn’t a child. He had eleven years. He was almost a man.

Glumly Federico studied the scene: the flickering candelabras, the glint of crystal and silver, the bowls of perfumed water and floating petals. Gems twinkled on the guests’ fingers, on their caps, in their hair. Once more the trumpets sounded as footmen carried in a platter with a roasted boar’s head coated in gold.

The sight of the boar doubled Federico’s hunger—the cherry sauce smelled so good! He must eat. But what? Not his elegant silk bedspread, or the portrait of his father in shining black armor, or his schoolbooks and pens and ink . . . The travel chest might contain something. It was nearly the size of a coffin, meant to hold all the items needed for a long stay such as his.

Federico dug through the layers, careful not to snag his rings. There: a pot of sugared almonds. They only took the edge off his appetite. He frowned as he swabbed out the last of the sugar. At home, he could sneak to the kitchens for candied lemons or spiced bonbons in syrup. But no chef in Rome would make the effort to preserve such luxuries for him.

Federico sighed, belly rumbling. He wanted something sweet! Fruit, even. Grapes, or figs—

Figs. But of course. This very morning he’d seen a platter of figs in the pope’s new study. Federico had been sitting for hours as Master Raphael Sanzio painted his portrait onto the wall, and the figs were a nice interruption. He and Raphael had eaten several and left the rest on a windowsill.

Again Federico’s belly growled, for a moment drowning out the snores of his governess in the next room. But the figs were all the way in the pope’s palace. Should he wander so late without servants or guards—without even waking Celeste?

His stomach grumbled an answer: yes.

Quickly Federico pulled on silk breeches and hose. They did not match but no one would see him. He strapped on a knife belt and tied a cloak round his shoulders, for a gentleman without a cloak might as well be naked. Setting a cap on his blond curls, he took up the lantern that Celeste kept burning just in case and tiptoed out the door. Federico might be a hostage, kept in Rome to guarantee his family’s loyalty to His Holiness, Pope Julius II. But that did not mean he was trapped in his room.

The villa in which Federico resided sat on a high breezy hill, almost a quarter mile from the pope’s palace. His Holiness had recently decided to link the two buildings with a long corridor in order to impress his guests. This corridor was still very much under construction, however, and few but Federico used it. Workmen stored planking there, and unwanted furniture. At this hour the moon gaped through the half-built roof. Federico’s lantern made eerie shadows out of ladders and stacks of tiles and a man hulking by the wall—

Federico jumped back, heart pounding. It wasn’t a man! Just a large wooden box. Thank heavens his sisters weren’t here, for they would have been frightened. But not him.

Still, he averted his eyes as he crept past the box.

At last he reached the end of the corridor and the heavy door to the palace. The pope’s palace, too, was under construction, every room and hallway requiring some new decoration or shape. Federico had to sidestep boxes of tools and tubs of quicklime as he made his way to the pope’s new study. He reached for the door—and sniffed. Unwashed feet, dirty clothes, greasy hair . . . He knew those smells. Master? he called, wrinkling his nose. Michelangelo?

The study door burst open. Who is it? Michelangelo glared down, fists clenched. Hmph. Federico. What do you want?

What a strange creature Michelangelo Buonarroti was. The greatest sculptor in the world, more talented than even the Ancients—but his pride drove away admirers and his misery drove away friends. Years of looking up to paint the Sistine Chapel ceiling had left his neck permanently crooked. Long ago he’d had his nose broken for bragging, and his father had warned him never to bathe. Michelangelo wasn’t handsome to begin with, but with his mangled face and his stink . . .

Good evening, Master. Federico bowed, breathing through his mouth. Why was Michelangelo here? I’ve come to . . . admire my portrait. That sounded more respectable than admitting to hunger—hunger was what poor people felt. He slipped past Michelangelo into the study. Sheets covered the bookcases and the floor; rough platforms allowed painters to reach upper walls. There, on the windowsill: the platter. Ah. Figs. He held the platter out. Would you like some?

Michelangelo waved the fruit away. Your portrait? he scoffed. Portraits aren’t art.

Sometimes they are. Federico’s eyes went to a handsome blond boy above the door—one small painted figure tucked into a scene of fifty-odd philosophers. Such a joy it is to include you, Raphael had said as he applied the finishing touches. You look wise beyond your years.

Michelangelo glared at the crowded wall. Everything that peacock knows, I taught him. Peacock was Michelangelo’s name for Raphael, to mock Raphael’s fine clothes.

Federico almost choked on a fig. I didn’t know Master Raphael was your student.

I didn’t say he was my student. I’d never allow such a thing. He simply takes. Like a hole in a bucket draining me empty. Like a leech sucking out blood.

Ah. Federico lowered the platter. Now he felt queasy.

Michelangelo scowled at an image of philosopher Pythagorus displaying his theory of harmony. What do you and Raphael talk about? Do you two talk about me? Though only six and thirty, the artist’s face held lines of misery. He reeked of sweat and old boots.

Federico risked another fig. Mostly we talk about His Holiness. Raphael likes to hear about him throwing the backgammon table. Federico played backgammon with the pope, and often won.

The peacock is desperate to see the Sistine Chapel, you know. But I’ll never allow it. Michelangelo glowered at the wall, the figures so perfect that they were almost breathing. Hmph. Away he stomped, trailing stink.

Well. That was interesting, Federico thought as he headed back to the villa. What was Michelangelo doing in the pope’s study in the middle of the night? The palace decorations were Raphael’s assignment, nothing to do with him. Federico gasped as the truth hit him: Michelangelo had been spying! The great master, secretly studying young Raphael. What a delicious bit of gossip.

But whom could Federico tell? Celeste talked so much that she had no time to listen. The few children in the palace worked as pages or cook’s boys, far below his rank; a duke’s son did not socialize with commoners. The footmen—his tailor—the jester? The cupids painted on his ceiling? No. Though Federico knew many souls in Rome, he had no one to call a friend.

He pondered this sad truth, gloomily chewing the last fig, as he trekked down the corridor. Somewhere in the distance the church of Saint Mary Major rang midnight, the mournful sound matching his mood. Gravel scratched beneath his slippers; his lantern barely dented the black. The stars watched him coldly. How he wished for the company of his little sisters. How he wished to be home. Not for the first time, he thought about running away. Such a crime, however, would bring his whole family shame. No, he must remain captive in Rome until His Holiness saw fit to release him—

Mrow.

What was that? Federico spun, drawing his knife. Pearly moonbeams pierced the darkness, lighting pyramids of floor tile and stacks of planks and the tall wooden box by the wall. . . . He frowned. What was that box doing here, anyway? It must have arrived this afternoon, during his nap.

Screwing up his courage, Federico eased closer, knife in hand. The box—some kind of closet—was a fine piece, to be sure, with gems set into smooth walnut wood. Someone had paid well for the carpentry.

A scratching, faint but insistent, from beyond the closet door.

Federico leaped back, his mouth dry. B-begone—

More scratching. Federico would give half his country for a friend right now.

Mrow. . . .

Oh, heavens. It was only a cat, trapped in this fancy carved closet. With a snort of relief, Federico sheathed his knife. Come out, he called, lifting the latch.

A kitten thrust its way out, tail quivering. Mrow? A kitten as tawny as a lion, with black-tipped ears. He scooped her up, and she purred in his hands. Her amber eyes, lined in black like the kohl-rimmed eyes of Egyptians, shone in the lantern light. Her kitten teeth were no thicker than needles. Mrow?

Greetings. Federico bowed. I am Sir Federico Gonzaga, son of Duke Francesco II of Mantua and Lady Isabella d’Este of Ferrara.

Mrow. The kitten reached out a paw as soft as a kiss to tap his nose, and wiggled to be free.

Certainly, my lady. I would not detain you. Federico set her down, and she bounced across the floor, rolling like a jester—a far better jester than the one at the banquet! He laughed, clapping. He could spend the rest of his life watching this.

Abruptly she stopped to lick a paw as if to say Me, tumble? Never!

She spotted a bit of feather and crouched, creeping toward it. She sprang—

Captured! exclaimed Federico. Oh, you are too clever.

She scrambled down the corridor with the determination of a tiny racehorse and careened back, bouncing off his ankles. Mrow, she boasted, her whole body purring.

A proper sprinter you are. Federico petted her. Though we need to work on your turns.

The kitten pranced away—and suddenly her back arched, fur bristling, as she skittered on tiptoe toward him, hissing through her kitten teeth.

Oh, you are fierce. I’m quite frightened. He hid behind his cloak, to demonstrate.

She batted at the cloak’s hem, climbing his legs—

Ow! He laughed, setting her down. These hose are silk.

She wandered toward the closet, batting the door. Mrow?

Federico jumped to open it. Sniffing the air, the kitten toddled in.

He closed the door with a bow—My lady—and threw it open. For you.

No kitten emerged.

Kitten? He peered into the closet.

Nothing there.

Federico scrambled for the lantern. Where are you? He knelt, running his hands along the wood. He shone the lantern into the corners, onto the door with its gems. No kitten. Only strange symbols in black ebony and white holly wood.

He stepped back, panic rising. Kitten? Somewhere in the distance people laughed and strummed, but in this corridor: only silence. Silence, and the tolling bells of Santo Spirito.

A sob swelled in Federico’s chest. Where are you? He should smash this closet to bits! Shatter the gems with the butt of his knife, then stomp on the fragments. Such strangeness wasn’t right. Kitten?

The last notes of Santo Spirito faded to silence. The bells of Sant’Agostino began, and of Santa Rufina, for every church in Rome has its own version of midnight.

Federico gulped lungfuls of air. Was this a dreadful prank? Witchcraft? Something evil. With great sadness he shut the closet door. Goodbye, kitten. It would be a long walk indeed to the villa. The lantern hung from his hand like a hundred-pound weight. Never in his life had he felt so alone.

Mrow.

He dashed back—threw open the door—

A cat sauntered out. A full-grown cat with a coat like a lion, her eyes lined in black. She gazed up at him. Mrow? she asked—but with a cat’s voice, not a squeak.

Kitten? he whispered.

The cat threaded through his legs, rubbing his calves with black-tipped ears.

He gulped. It’s you. But how . . . ?

Mrow. She ambled toward the closet, her amber eyes winking in the lantern light. No more kitten tumbling. Mrow? She batted the door.

No! Federico snatched her up.

Reviews for Da Vinci's Cat

[juliestielstra · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

As a lover of cats and art history, I had high hopes for this story. They were not fulfilled. The author clearly has done an enormous amount of research to get the details of early 16th-century Rome right, and then falls victim to the temptation to write them ALL into every page - every dish at several banquets, every item of clothing worn. The writing is often repetitive: she tells us multiple times in a single scene that Michelangelo stinks. She tells us - over and over - that Federico wants a friend. Paradoxically, there are elements of the art and artists and assumptions that *I* (as an adult art history grad) "got" that I'm not sure the intended middle-grade reader would, or would find terribly appealing. When the setting and characters shifted to present-day America, the carpentry just broke down and I bailed.Clumsy writing, tenuous plot machinery, and charmless characters... just didn't work for me.

[amzzz_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A cute little book about time travel and famous artists